Writings of a storm cold

Writings of a storm cold The house gently Creaks From icy winds pressing against Exteriors whilst slipping Through Small inconsistencies. Sleet dances against window panes. Piling glass against glass, Particulates of infinite possibilities. Fractals dancing down, Tap dancing on rooftops. I sit at kitchen table, Bundled from the cold. My only friend and partner, a Dancing flame from candle Casting shadows upon the walls. Words scratching valleys and Mountains across vast white expanse. Scratching eloquence.. Moving still. Plumes of billowy exhale surround my head Like a haloed angel. Tonalities of gray, from white to A Dark and shadowy blackness. Reaching out, Ever growing, Like the reach of sea creatures lost beneath vast depths. Here I sit, Staged against the cold. A storm of ice, From liquids fallen from skies with stories Told. I am their conductor. Dance for me of wind, Whisper in mine ear. Settle still o house of moaning temperance Against a northernly wind. All the while my quill to Parchment Sliding out visions painted by verbiage.